Conspiracy of the Islands (The Age of Bronze)

by Diana Gainer

  Meneláwo sighed and shook his head. "Each one of these captives is acceptable, taken alone. But, still, when you put them all together, it leaves 'Ermiyóna in danger. It does, no matter what you say! A widow alone submits to anything to protect her orphaned child. But a woman who has suffered a loss, who has kinsmen nearby, no, that is different – she seeks revenge. That is simply the way of the world."

  "Ai," T'éti scolded, "you wánaktes are all alike. You have forgotten the old ways. Does your 'Elléniya never speak of the Golden Age? In that far-off time, all civilized people were one, worshipping a single goddess as their mother. It was only when the base metal, bronze, came into the world, that the nations split apart and the people went their separate ways."

  Odushéyu sank deeply into his chair in disgust, rolling his eyes.

  "T'éti," Meneláwo moaned, rubbing his aching head, "please." Both kings had heard their priestess-wives expound on the subject at great length. Neither cared to hear the tale yet again.

  But the queen went on, unperturbed. "Today, the children of the goddess live in many different lands and they call her by different names. But she is still only one. North of here, in T'eshalíya, they call her Dodóna. Ak'áyans say Diwiyána, while the Kep'túriyans, always distinctive, know her as Dánwa. Across the Inner Sea to the east, the goddess is Dáwan. In the far west, where there are only villages, the barbarians know her as Diwána. They are our kinsmen, too."

  "Wánasha, this is an old, old story," Odushéyu groaned, impatiently interrupting. "Men may be brothers, but, still, we are at each others' throats. A man has to be realistic."

  Meneláwo agreed. "I am only trying to ensure that 'Ermiyóna's throat is not cut by the kinsmen of those who raped her mother. If you cannot guarantee my daughter's safety, I will take her home with me and marry her to someone who can." Odushéyu clapped his friend on the shoulder to demonstrate his support.

  The royal T'eshalíyans leaped to their feet. Péleyu cried, "'Ermiyóna cannot go home now, unless you return the marriage gifts."

  "What gifts?" Meneláwo demanded back, rising to face the other king. "Púrwo sent a shipload of T'rákiyan grain to keep his wife from starving before the wedding."

  "Leave my house! Leave my land!" Péleyu cried, purple with fury, and beginning to wheeze. "I will not allow you to touch any person in my household. Go, or I will have my soldiers blacken their spears with your blood! Púrwo will be back any time now and, if need be, he will finish the job. If you want your daughter back, return the bride-price. That is the custom." He coughed again and again, gasping harshly in between, clutching his chest with a trembling hand. T'éti took his arm in alarm, gesturing for Meneláwo to go.

  The Lakedaimóniyan hesitated for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists, looking from the aging king to the door. "Very well, I will go," Meneláwo announced at last, to Odushéyu's dismay. "But I will be back. If I find that 'Ermiyóna has been harmed in any way, I swear by the Stuks, the river of the underworld, that I will sack every fortress in T'eshalíya and impale every man, woman, and child in this household with my spear." With that, he strode out of the throne room.

  In the corridor, Odushéyu caught up with him. "Take 'Ermiyóna now," the It'ákan urged him breathlessly. "There are only a few men in the citadel and half our forces are waiting at the ships. We can take your daughter by force and sail for Mukénai tonight."

  Meneláwo shook his head. "No, I have done too many dishonorable things already. Péleyu has a right to demand the return of the bride-price. We will go to T'ráki for grain. That was part of my original plan, anyway. Then we will come back to T'eshalíya for 'Ermiyóna. They will not harm her. Lakedaimón's army may not excite fear in any northern heart, but Diwoméde is my ally and his land of Argo stands for true power."

  As they made for the courtyard and the front entrance, Odushéyu argued, "But Argo's men are not here, Meneláwo. Your nephew is still in Attika, tracking Diwoméde down. Who knows how soon the qasiléyu will be able to come? You cannot afford to leave now. Word might easily reach Péleyu of his grandson's death before we return. How safe would your daughter be then?"

  The Lakedaimóniyan pressed on, shaking his head. He stepped outside into the baking air of the afternoon, where he came to a halt. Leaning against the outside wall, Meneláwo groaned, "Ai, Odushéyu, what can I do?"

  The exile took this opportunity to grasp Meneláwo's arm and insist, "Think of your oath."

  "What oath?" Meneláwo asked, staring at the distant mountains.

  With a malicious grin, Odushéyu reminded the Lakedaimóniyan, "You promised to kill Andrómak'e and her children. I heard you through the door."

  Meneláwo growled and strode forward again, quickening his pace. "To 'Aidé with you," he cursed.

  Odushéyu was hardly able to keep up with him. Still the It'ákan pressed his argument. "But you will do as you swore, will you not? What of your honor? Are you not afraid of the dead? If you break your word, Agamémnon's soul will torment you for all time."

  Meneláwo shot the other man a baleful look as they passed the courtyard gate and began the walk down the hillside to the shore. "The gods have already sent me more than my share of troubles. What more can they do to me?" He stopped on the paved ramp that led from the fortress. Clapping his hands to his thighs, he cried, "By the gods, I would gladly trade every good thing I ever owned, to see the world once more as it was before the Tróyan war!" His voice cracked with anguish and he raised his hands to the sky, pleading wordlessly with the unseen deities. "Ai, you do not realize how the dead torment me now!"

  Odushéyu gave him a gentle shove. "Enough of this pious yearning! Let us get to the ships, where we can discuss the matter of your daughter's freedom with your men. One of them may be able to talk some sense into you."

  aaa

  Attika's fortified capital rose on its hilltop, above Diwoméde's encampment. The Argive qasiléyu rose at dawn and came from his hide tent, fully dressed, to glare up at the city's walls. His kilt oiled, his leather corselet covering his torso, Diwoméde took up his shield and spear from their resting places beside his tent flap. After briefly saluting the eastern sky, he put his horned helmet on his head before setting out for his daily march around the walls of At'énai, a circuit that would take him most of the day. He took his time, but not just to spare his mangled foot. Often, he stopped to glare at the feathered warriors peering down from the ramparts, a fierce hatred burning in his heart.

  The Argive qasiléyu passed beneath the southern perimeter of the fortress without stopping, as no openings pierced those walls. But he slowed his pace and stared hard and long, as he came to the eastern end. A stepped path built into the rocky hillside, steep walls of natural stone rising on either side, led to the northeastern end of the summit, where there had once been a small, postern gate with a protecting tower. The entrance had recently been filled in with mud brick, faced with stone on the outside, to eliminate a possible forced entry. On either side of the gate lay the massive fortification walls that followed the irregular outline of the hilltop and surrounded it, broken only at well-defended gates.

  The main entrance, at the western summit of a larger, stepped ramp, was protected by a long, narrow tower beyond it, attached to the city's outer wall by a thin spur with a guardroom. All the heights were heavily manned by archers. It was here that Diwoméde had suffered his crushing defeat a decade earlier. In his walk around the city, the qasiléyu did not pause or look up at that place.

  A third entrance, on the northwest, stood above still another stepped path, connecting the fortress above and the plain below. Between the two extremes was a plateau which was also walled. This smaller enclosure held the Argive leader's interest the longest. Not far from this point was the citadel's underground water supply. This Diwoméde had learned from Menést'eyu. The cistern was not easily reached, because the approach was through a cave, followed by a descent of eight staircases built into a natural fissure in the cliff. Below the steps was a well, where wa
ter collected in a pit. This had been discovered and deepened at the time that the outer wall of the fortress had been built, long ago. It was a gift from the gods, the people said of that water supply, and they believed their citadel could not be taken, because of it.

  Menést'eyu had revealed this information freely one night, after refusing for so long, under repeated blows, to reveal anything. Diwoméde sighed at the thought. The Attikan qasiléyu must have realized that knowledge of the underground water source would not help his enemies. This Menést'eyu had seemed utterly devoid of honor a decade before, when he had starved Diwoméde and the other Argives in their Attikan prison. But areté was now surely on Menést'eyu's mind, for he would volunteer no other detail. The Attikan qasiléyu would not betray At'énai, no matter what they did to him.

  Orésta arrived while the Argive qasiléyu was away from his tent. Without ceremony, foot soldiers showed the youth where their leader's things were, then abandoned him to his own devices. As he waited for Diwoméde, Orésta observed the camp. The soldiers were dirty and the encampment was no better, strewn with the refuse of meals and the excrement of animals and men. Fights continually broke out among the foot soldiers. All were restless, tired of the harshness of camp life, anxious to see an end to the siege. They talked of their families and of the season, wondering whether they would be home in time to sow the barley and take part in the festival that preceded it. Or, they asked each other darkly, would yet another Argive leader condemn his own land to famine, in his lust to destroy his enemy's harvest? Agamémnon had died for that sacrilege, they recalled to each other with grim faces.

  It was with great concern that Orésta met Diwoméde in his tent, when the qasiléyu returned late in the afternoon. "Meneláwo sent me to bring you to T'eshalíya," Orésta announced.

  Diwoméde was surprised to see the younger man and said nothing at first. He set down his spear and shield, removed his helmet and corselet, laying each in its place with care.

  Orésta could barely contain his agitation, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Did you hear me?" he finally demanded. "Meneláwo commands you…"

  Diwoméde spun on his heel to face Orésta. Interrupting, he cried, "I am not his to command." The qasiléyu fixed the younger man with a furious stare and growled, "I will not leave this place until At'énai falls."

  Orésta swallowed hard. But he did not back away from the older warrior. "I am sorry. I should not have said 'command.' You are right. My uncle is not your wánaks."

  Somewhat mollified, Diwoméde nodded curtly. He stepped to the flap of his tent and called to the men squatting by the fire outside, "Prepare the meal. Bring mine to my tent. And bring enough for my guest." He entered the small shelter without a backward look.

  "Diwoméde," Orésta began, following him inside. "Meneláwo needs your assistance. He must get his daughter out of T'eshalíya before the news of Púrwo's death arrives."

  Diwoméde sat on his sheepskin pallet, his jaw set, his eyes on the ground. "So Ak'illéyu's son is dead, is he? Good. But I will not leave this place until At'énai falls. It is a matter of honor."

  Orésta squatted before him. "I understand your desire for revenge," he said quietly. "But we are not at war with Attika. We came north to defend Qoyotíya, not to invade her neighbor."

  Diwoméde rubbed his heavily scarred shoulder in silence and Orésta's young eyes were drawn to the knotted tissue. The qasiléyu brought his left knee to his chest, then, and massaged his aching foot. Orésta could not avoid the sight of the old injury, three toes completely gone, a fourth only a stub, the big toe alone still whole. Diwoméde groaned and reclined on his left side, stretching out his legs before his eyes rose to Orésta's face. "I swore an oath of loyalty to wánaks Agamémnon, years ago," the qasiléyu told his companion in a low voice. "To do his will, your father's will, I sailed to Assúwa with his brother. I was in that first, unlucky battle. Later, I was beside your father in Qoyotíya and in the island battles that followed. I was at Tróya throughout the siege. I wintered with him in T'ráki on the way home, too. There, I did his bidding and helped his Tróyan concubine take her bloody revenge."

  Orésta could no longer meet the qasiléyu's unblinking stare. "Yes, Diwoméde, I know these things," the younger man whispered, frowning at the hard, earthen floor of the tent.

  Diwoméde continued. "My overlord's last command to me was to sack At'énai, for the sake of his honor. I failed and I suffered for it. But I did not die. If you say that Meneláwo needs me, I believe you. He needs me. And I will go to him. But first, there is something I must do here. It is my duty to fulfill that older oath. I will not leave this place until At'énai falls," he repeated once more, adding in a whisper, "for the sake of your father's areté."

  Orésta pressed his eyes shut and sighed deeply. "Yes," he said at last, "I see your point. My father's honor has been forgotten too many times, for too many reasons. You must remain here until At'énai is taken. I will stay with you."

  "That is not necessary," Diwoméde argued, his face relaxing, less grim than before. "I know that concern for 'Ermiyóna's safety oppresses your heart. Go to her. That way, Meneláwo will have all of his men, at least, even if he does not have mine."

  But Orésta shook his head. "My father's areté must come first, even before my promised bride. I will stay."

  Diwoméde almost laughed with surprise. "Promised bride! Is this true?"

  Angrily, the younger man answered, "Yes, it is true. Why should it be otherwise? She was promised to me when we were still children. She only went to Púrwo because of the drought and…."

  Diwoméde raised his free hand, palm outward. "Peace, Orésta, I did not mean to anger you. I am surprised, that is all. 'Ermiyóna has been in another man's bed. She may even be carrying his child. Many men would not take such a woman." He saw the other's face darkening with increasing fury, as he tried to explain himself.

  Orésta stood and shouted, "'Ermiyóna has committed no crime! She married Púrwo. Of course she has been to his bed. But she is a widow now, not an adulteress. She is not her mother."

  Sitting up, the qasiléyu raised both hands. "Do not be offended by my words. I am a rough man, raised among shepherds, and I spend all my time with soldiers. I meant nothing disrespectful."

  To the war leader's relief, his men entered with barley gruel, lentils, and a jug of wine. "Now go to your own supper," Diwoméde instructed the men. When they had gone, he motioned to Orésta, who was still on his feet and fuming. "Sit and eat with me. Let us talk of other things. Have you heard what happened to the fortresses in the Kukládes? Nearly all the Islands in a Circle have been attacked and no one seems to know who is responsible. I think it must have been Lúkiyans. What do you think?"

  Orésta still smarted from the older man's remarks. He watched Diwoméde pour wine into two ceramic cups before he spoke. "If 'Ermiyóna bears a child to Púrwo, I will raise it as my own," the youth announced, his voice quivering with emotion. "In a few years' time, no one will remember when it was born. They will know only what I say. If I say that it is mine, men will say the same. You should know." He sat and quickly gulped the wine that Diwoméde had poured for him.

  The qasiléyu dropped his own cup, spilling the dark liquid, and stared open-mouthed at the other. "What?" he gasped.

  "You are my bastard half-brother," Orésta explained venomously. "Do not tell me you did not know."

  "I did not realize that you knew," Diwoméde retorted. He was uncomfortable, but excited at the same time. His heart began to pound and he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. "If you know this, then there is another matter we should discuss. It, too, concerns your father's honor."

  Orésta's eyes met Diwoméde's, a harsh light shining in both. "Yes," agreed the younger man, "We must avenge our father's areté."

  aaa

  Behind the walls of the besieged city, Attika's wánaks, Erékt'eyu, lay dying, on a raised pallet of sheepskins. He had been carried to the mégaron, where the elders of At'énai had c
onvened in assembly to deal with their desperate situation. The king lay with his eyes half closed and his withered lips parted, as he struggled to breathe. Hardly more than a skeleton with skin, he took no part in the discussion. But beside his bed stood his gray-haired daughter, Kt'oníya. "My father's soul cannot depart in peace until he hears that At'énai is saved from destruction," she called out to the assembly, her voice as deep and strong as a man's.

  "Owái," wailed the oldest of the assembled At'éniyan men, shaking long, white locks. "We have no choice but to send the men out to fight. Autumn has arrived. We must plant the grain now or we will miss the time of sowing."

  Kt'oníya firmly shook her head, her square jaw set. "Yesterday, I would have agreed with you, Klóniyo. But the watchers on the walls report that our enemy has received reinforcements today. If we were too outnumbered to fight before, what chance do we have now?"

  All eyes turned to Klóniyo, as he sat draped in dirty wool, on a plastered bench that ran the length of the mégaron wall. "We have no choice but to try," he wheezed in his thin voice. "We cannot afford to lose a single crop. Look at what has happened elsewhere – famine, disease, banditry on the land, piracy on the sea. We have even heard of kings driven from their palaces or slaughtered in their own bathtubs."

  Kt'oníya lifted her hand to silence the old man. "Abandoning a year's harvest is indeed dangerous. But do not overestimate the risk. Attika has never grown enough grain to feed all of her people. We have always bought some from Qoyotíya and Éyuqoya. If we can hold out a little longer, our enemies will have to leave to save their own barley. So, the crops are not our most immediate problem. What makes the siege urgent is my father's health."

  "Can we expect reinforcements of our own?" Klóniyo asked hopefully.

  Kt'oníya frowned. "No. T'eshalíya's forces must have been defeated, or we would not be facing Qoyotíya's allies. I have had no word from my chief qasiléyu, Menést'eyu, so I can only assume that our main army is occupied elsewhere and is unable to come to our aid. My father concluded a secret alliance with the western islands and with the king of Argo, years ago. They are our only hope. I sent messages to It'áka and to Mukénai, at the beginning of the siege. But we cannot wait for them to arrive. My father will not survive much longer."